Old faces filled with tired weary lines looked back at me, with eyes that seemed to plead for something other than waiting for the Reapers kiss. Looking at these ancient wheelchair-bound relics in their current condition, you would never have guessed that many of them were once war heroes. Some ran head-on into battle welcoming Valhalla's gates, but most were just scared kids without a choice. Now they simply want to live their last days receiving the respect so courageously earned long ago.

          Walking through the wide halls of the Idaho State Veterans Home allowed me to notice just how sterile it all was. Even the bathrooms with their clean polished tiles and sparkling porcelain commodes were immaculate. The offices, though cramped, seemed tidy and well organized, while not seeming canned and generic at the same time. The only thing that I disliked about the facility, and still do, was that overwhelming hospital smell that stinks of Lysol cleansed death. It is overwhelming how commonplace someone's demise becomes in a place like that.

As with any new job, I was required to go through a certain amount of orientation and training to familiarize myself with the duties I was to perform. I became the instant shadow of Julie, my trainer for the activities team. Her job was to teach me the basic rules and introduce me to the facility's current residents. You could tell Julie had been there a pretty long time because of the phony permanent smile she wore at work. Many of the people working at the Vet home carried that lie around on their face.

          There were two residents that I remember quite well because of their diminished conditions. One old vet (I'll refer to as F) was trapped in a wheelchair, like the majority of the patients, but F was in obviously in incredible pain. As I sat there and visited him, I could tell by his cavernous fatigued eyes and his rag doll slumping body that he had given up; he could already hear the drumming of earth on his coffin. When I had visited F for a while, I asked him if it would be okay if I stopped by and visited every other day. F just looked away and whispered dejectedly that he just didn't care. As I left his room I glanced back at his weak emaciated form, I felt sick to my stomach.

          My next visit was with a man named W; he was sitting up in a chair in front of his television with all the animation of a dead fish. Julie and I talked to him as if he knew we were there, receiving little response. We kept up the charade for awhile until we started to notice a viscus, orange brown fluid streaming down his old red chin. Julie cleaned this up; I was ashamed at how completely repulsed I was by this man's shameful existence. Julie mentioned to W that later that day, a puppy was going to be brought around and there was an immediate change in him; it was obvious that on some level he was pleased with this.

          Later that day, as promised, I took a very rambunctious puppy to see W after the other residents had been given time with it. I was pretty exited to get to his room to see how he would react. I thought that if he did like the puppy, maybe that would make me feel a little better about my personal feelings towards W earlier in the day. He was in bed and I tried for about five minutes to rouse him; he would be pleased to see this little black and white wonder I had brought. I told W that he was missing out and that this puppy would really miss him if he didn't get out of bed and play with it some. I finally left defeated, not finding out until later that he had been dead the entire time I had been in his room. Now, I can think back and remember the fetid smell of his emptied bowels and the complete lack of breathing sounds, but I just didn't make the connection at the time.

          With family surrounding him the whole time, F's spirit was finally released from his tormented, ruined body to walk freely with the warriors of the past. When he became a soldier, I am sure he imagined himself as a man who would die honorably during a hard fought battle at the business end of the enemy's rifle. He didn't imagine himself dying in his sleep on the business end of an I. V. line with the only enemy being his own failing body. The sad truth is when war heroes survive all the battles, spitting in Grim's face, the Angel of Death will be truly vindictive; it will take the forgotten heroes lives in the cruelest way possible, through the slow passage of time and the measured erosion of the spirit.

Red Life

Sweet, venomous valentine promises spoken from red lying lips, parted by a forked tongue, bringing red roses, red tulips, two lips pressed together in a fine red line, too much red wine in front of a roaring fireplace; red hot poker, Snap Dragon bud, a butterfly's sweet red smile, purity given to the scarlet letter; no crimson tide floats a red dawn, red letter day, bright red pulsing pain, strained (fear stained) red face, blood bathed cries of new life need a red baby buggy bumper, Raggedy Andy, clowns funny nose, and one red candle; red scabs on little knees from red flaring temper tantrums.

Red carpet dreams replaced by a red ball, ladybug colored car, toy fire trucks, red tipped matches, fire trucks have flashing red lights that seem to scream; is someone screaming? Fade in to blood shot eyes, seeing blood stained bandages that after time give birth to thick red scars, disfiguring a once perfect flower; flowers everywhere the eye can see under a red sunset, viewed by red rimmed springs of sorrow that regard a small wilted flower, with scarred red petals holding onto a new mother rose with painted red nails and ruby lips, holding a distant sad smile as the red cold ears of all hear the drumming of earth striking cherry wood.

It is time said I, with a twinkle and a smile,

to stop chasing rabbits and walk for a while.

My thirst is not quenched, though it's been quite nice;

It's time to stop drinking with madmen and mice.

Good friend Tweedle Dee, good friend Tweedle Dum,

so sorry my friends, but I can no longer come.

I have no real flair for cards (so instead)

I'll be on my way, having lost my head.

So back up the dark black hole I climb,

With hopes I reach cruel reality in time.

And if I should fail and I'm trapped to stay,

Would anyone care to play croquet?

Lessons are strange and unique in that we can glean wisdom from without realizing sometimes, until years later. At what point do we look back and say "I learned a valuable lesson there"? We can be in a negative situation that would seem to have no potential for gaining wisdom at all. In that event or series of events, however, some of the most significant lessons can in fact be learned.

            There is nothing to be gained by giving graphic details on the countless tortures I suffered at the hands of a , now reformed, monster. Doing this would only overshadow the lesson, turning it into a twisted show and tell lasting some twenty years. Suffice it to say that time does not heal all wounds, but it helps deaden the pain some.

            My first real memory started in 1973 in a little house in Pocatello, Idaho. It must have been winter because I remember it being dark outside; my older siblings and I were sitting at the kitchen table quietly eating macaroni and cheese. It's odd, but I remember the wood grain of the table better than the meal; following the lines of the wood seemed to detach me from the frightening sounds of my father's voice beating away at the background. It is amazing though, how the sensation of being wrenched to your feet by the hair of your oh-so-stretchable scalp will bring your entire world into sharp, crystal clarity. What I did to deserve being drug around by my hair, while being kicked and punched is beyond me; how great of a crime can a three year old commit, while sitting quietly at the dinner table?

            My father had (and to some extent still has) an erratic, volcanic temper that could explode at any given time. That temper would often explode without warning, sending anyone within striking range flying back in a painful confused scream. Something I never understood was what made my father so angry all the time. It was not until years later that I realized my father had been raised in much the same way that I was. I know now that he was self-imprisoned in a cage of his own anger and seemed unwilling or unable to free himself or our family.

            As I matured, so did the bars of my own cage of anger thicken and harden into a menacing prison. I often exploded into fits of black rage just like my father, without concern for those caught in the blast. I spent most of my teen years fighting anyone who happened to offend me, while looking for reasons to be offended. I was told by friends years later that the only reason they had been my friends in school was because they were afraid not to be. What kind of a person had they really perceived when they looked at me?

            I had not realized how much like my father I had become until 1997 - the year my daughter Ilirijana was born. I was in the army at that time; my unit just got out of the field and I was absolutely dead tired. As soon as I walked in the door my wife walked past me informing me that she had things to do and I needed to take care of the baby. "Just take her with you" I growled. "I just got in from the field and I get to change shitty diapers, while you take off to play!" She was already out the door and down the stairwell before I had even finished the sentence.

            Babies sense anger and there is no doubt in my mind that my little girl felt the ominous waves spreading out from me. She started to cry; it was one of those cries that starts as a whimper and evolves into an ice pick that drives itself deep into an already throbbing skull. There she was standing up in her crib, screaming at the top of her little lungs. I just wanted that goddamn noise to stop right fucking now! Like a being possessed, I started screaming back at her to "shut the fuck up!" There is no way something so small could make so much noise.

            As I reached toward my little girl with dreadful purpose, I was flooded by the memory of being ripped out of my seat by my hair like a rag doll, while being beaten like a dog. I picked my little baby up and sat down on the floor with her and bawled my eyes out in utter shame of what I had become. At that very moment, the gates of my prison were opened, letting out the man I could be. I thought my father had taught me the lesson of anger and violence, but I realize that I was shown how a man should not act. My precious daughter taught me love and patience, a lesson many people never learn. Patience is a lesson I relearn every day, but I do not have to worry as long as my little teachers stay on task; thank God for time out.